Mr. Bolt mused.
"Goes to church, does she." His eyes travelled over Harrison Smith's black garments. "Why didn't you call?"
"Didn't strike me. Fancy she knows very little."
"'Curs to me," said Bolt, "I might do the clergyman stunt myself in those parts. I've got some stuff. A bit of the old Wesley—'Quiet harbourage from the turmoil of city life, my dear lady. An occasional hour in your beautiful garden.' That's the ticket."
"Then get off straight away. There's a train at five a.m. from Waterloo. You can have my room at the pub. I'll give you a note to the proprietor."
"And assuming I meet brother Barraclough?"
"Get him," responded Harrison Smith laconically. "Make as little fuss as possible but get him."
Mr. Bolt nodded and the piggy little eyes twinkled greedily.
"Trust me," he said. "Anything else you want?"
Harrison Smith thought for a moment.